


Calypso

by Crollalanza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, post college AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: [Hey, I’m going to be in Italy next week – want to meet up?][Konoha-san?][Ha, yeah, it’s me. SURPRISE!!!]The message literally stops Keiji in his tracks. A bolt from the blue, pulling him up short in the middle of a busy Florence street. For Konoha Akinori, to all intents and purposes, turned his back on Japan and Fukurodani during his final year at college and none of them have seen him for over four years.So why is he back in touch now?
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Konoha Akinori
Comments: 32
Kudos: 96





	1. Weaving

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few musical influences to this fic, namely Martha's Harbour by All About Eve, Calypso by Suzanne Vega and The Man with the Child in his Eye by Kate Bush. 
> 
> Also ... in 2018, my writing regret was that I never got around to writing the 'Konoha Sexy Dancer' fic, but ta-da, here it is!

Keiji is idling his way home, sipping on a bottle of tepid water, and thinking of icecream when the message arrives. It’s late afternoon in Florence, dry and hot, and all he really wants to do shower and sleep, but he pulls out his phone nonetheless to read whatever’s come through.

And stops walking.

People push past him. He resists the buffeting, hardly aware of the shoulders jolting into his back, and stares at the screen.

**[Hey, I’m going to be in Italy next week – want to meet up?]**

_[Konoha-san?]_

**[Ha, yeah, it’s me. SURPRISE!!!]**

_[You’re coming to Italy?]_

**[Yeah. I’m crewing a boat to Ancona – should be there around 20th. Just wondered if you’d like to catch up. No pressure if you can’t, but I thought I’d stay for a few days, take in some sights. Could easily go to Rome instead.]**

He was escaping already, water and sand slipping through Keiji’s fingers, and he could practically hear his former Captain yelling at him to hold on tight.

 _[Yes, I’d like to]_ he types back hurriedly.

But … he thinks of his small room in the house he shares with the Bianchi family. There’s no room for a guest, and he doesn’t have time to organise a room at the university.

**[Cool. I’ll start checking out trains and places to stay.]**

That’s that problem solved. _[I’d offer you a floor but I don’t have much of one]_

**[Gonna treat myself, so don’t worry about it. See you soon!]**

“Wow.” He whistles then picks up his pace, letting the crowd’s flow push him along as he ponders what has just happened. It’s been almost four years since Keiji last saw him, for Konoha Akinori has, to all intents and purposes, disappeared from their lives. He touched base with Sarukui occasionally, and they lived on the crumbs that he was fine.

‘He’s living,” Sarukui had told Bokuto when he’d poked and pried for more information. “Let him breathe.”

***

Keiji’s first thought is _His hair’s different_. It’s longer than it was at high school; he’s tied up the sides, letting the rest cluster untidily on his shoulders.

He takes in the figure leaning against the wall, one foot pressed flat against the bricks as he checks his phone. _Blonder too_ , he muses, picking out sunlight streaks in dark sand, but then that’s not so surprising in this heat.

His second thought is that he’s glad he’s arrived early and isn’t expected quite yet because it gives him a chance to collect his thoughts and smooth his face into a passive greeting before making his approach.

But his third thought (Holy wow!) as he glimpses a crinkled white untucked tee and frayed denim shorts exposing smooth tanned legs, is followed by a muddled crowd of others: _‘Why is my stomach churning? Is it nerves? What is there to be nervous about? Calm down, Keiji!’_

Did he always look like this?

Yes, of course. It is indubitably the boy he was at school with, his senpai and teammate, and he guesses he must look different too, but how did it happen? How did the passage of time leave its mark so slyly, when Keiji’s recollections still have them on a court, sweaty and exuberant?

 _Five years ago,_ he thinks, and his breath hitches.

Perhaps it’s the fact that in his tailored khaki shorts and clean, carefully pressed green shirt he at once feels overdressed, like a prom date who’s just discovered the venue is a potting shed. It’s not a new feeling, this out of his element unease, but it’s one he never thought he’d feel with old friends.

As his former senpai lifts his eyes from the screen, it’s too late to turn tail and head for any hills he can find, so swallowing down whatever this feeling is, Keiji raises his hand and ups his pace.

“Konoha-san. You made it.”

_Stupid statement. Of course he made it!_

“A little earlier than I thought,” Konoha replies. Then he pushes his sunglasses up to the top of his head and gives Keiji a lazy smile.

(At least that hasn’t changed.)

“Well, look at you. My kouhai’s gone and grown on me! I’m loving the undercut!”

“You look … uh …”

“Dirty, yeah, I could do with a shower. Sorry.”

“I was going to say ‘well’.” He steps closer, offering his hand to carry Konoha’s bag.

“That’s what the outdoor life does for you.” He squints at Keiji, the smile dimming a little as he scrutinizes closer. “You still stuck in libraries all day?”

Giving a head shake and small smile in return Keiji grasps Konoha’s holdall, swinging it over his shoulder. “We could get a taxi, but it’s a short walk.”

“Walk,” Konoha decides. “I’ve been cramped on the train, and I need to find my land legs.” He inclines his head. “Thanks for this, Akaashi-kun.”

“No problem,” Keiji replies.

They begin to walk, meandering through the bustle of the city, Keiji taking the lead and pointing out the odd building, or a favoured cafe.

But the question remains both unasked and unanswered.

_Why are you here, Konoha-san? And why now?_

As they walk, Konoha asks questions, curious it seems as to why Keiji’s moved back here.

“One of my old Professors was looking for translator. It was a no-brainer.”

“Does Tokyo not suit you anymore?”

He shakes his head. “This isn’t forever.”

“The world is a big place,” Konoha says with a nod of agreement. “I’ve been away for over three years now.”

 _Nearly four,_ Keiji thinks to himself.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I haven’t been back?”

“I presume you’d tell me if you wished,” he murmurs, “but as you say the world is a big place.”

“I’ve liked being rootless,” Konoha says when they’ve walked a little more.

“Sarukui-san told us you were fine.”

“Saru’s a good man. Doesn’t ask too many questions.”

“And we would have done?”

His mouth twists to a grimace. “I don’t think _you_ would have asked me anything.”

But Bokuto and Komi, yes they’d have pestered him, just as they pestered Saru to tell them more, just as Bokuto, on learning Konoha was in Greece, had urged Keiji to look out for him.

(“I can’t visit every island.”

“But you could make a start. Check he’s happy, at least.”)

Konoha’s bark interrupts the memory. “Hey, what’s that tower over there?”

He follows Konoha’s gesture. “Palazzo Vecchio. We can go there if you like.”

“Is that where the David statue is?”

“There’s a replica outside, but the real one’s in the Accademia. I can try for tickets, but you might be out of luck.”

He shrugs. “I should take in some culture, I guess.”

Hearing a touch of weariness, Keiji’s lips twitch. “I’m not forcing you, Konoha-san. We can just as easily eat pizza, drink wine and soak up more modern culture.” He turns the corner, glancing down the side street. “Look, I am sorry I couldn’t put you up.”

“It’s okay. I like my own space.” He looks around, taking in for the first time that which Keiji’s seen a myriad of times since he first came to Florence: the old buildings, sturdy brickwork, paved walkways that appear bustling yet not too busy. “You’re living in your professor’s house, is that right?”

“His sister’s. I have my own room, but everything else is shared.”

“Noisy?”

“She has two children, and the grandma lives with them so it’s … uh … lively. But it’s close to the university and I’m out most of the day.”

“This is me.” Konoha slows in front of a block of apartments with a red and green awning over the door. Not luxurious, but the glass frontage is clean, the stone steps have been swept and there’s a manned reception desk. “Meet you in an hour?”

“Sure. There’s a bar on the corner.”

“I’ll see you there.” Pushing open the front door, Konoha pauses, checks back over his shoulder and smiles. “Thanks again.”

With time to kill, Keiji browses one of the local bookshops then checks out tickets to the galleries. They’re booked up, and although there’s an option to queue, he’s not sure it’s Konoha’s thing. Preferring science to classics, he might like to see Da Vinci’s works, but then, perhaps all he really wants to do is relax and eat pizza. He turns up early again to the bar, and like before, Konoha is already there, a full glass of beer in front of him.

“Hey, what do you want?”

“Small beer.”

“Great.” Turning back to the barmaid, he orders in fractured Italian, adding a self-deprecating smile, (which the barmaid positively melts at). “Been shopping?”

“Just a notebook.”

“Wow, people still use them? Thought everything was digital now?”

“I like the smell of paper and ink,” Keiji replies as he pulls up a bar stool. “Or rather biro.”

“I meant to keep a journal when I first left Kyoto, but decided I could record everything photographically. It was going well for a month, but then…”

“You lost interest?”

“I dropped my camera in the sea. Thirty days of turtle pictures lost forever.”

“Frustrating!”

He takes a long slow swallow of his beer before he replies. “Not really. The turtles are still there, that’s the important thing.”

“You were there long?”

“Supposed to be three months for my course, but I stayed on for the year.”

Dropped out, Bokuto had told him, aghast when Konoha hadn’t made it back to watch the new Fukurodani team at Inter High.

“Then what?” Keiji asks.

“Started crewing for a few boats. Taught diving to tourists. Worked in bars while I island-hopped.” He’s halfway down his glass of beer, eyes assessing Keiji in a way that dries his throat. “You making a report for our Captain?”

He shakes his head. “I’m curious that’s all.” He sips his beer, letting it refresh his palate and unstick his tongue. “You’ve seen some life, then?”

“You like the classics, right? I fancied I was Odysseus sailing the seas, unable to get back Ithaca.” He grins. “I’ve been there by the way.”

“You have?”

“Yup, it’s small and rocky. Homer was right. Anyway, that’s me, so how about you? Tell me about your job and studies and travels. You went to England?”

“How did you know? Oh, Saru?”

“Partly. I did check social media. I’ve not been a complete hermit. There was a picture of you in a boat getting tangled up in tree branches, like … uh … a gondolier?”

“A punt in Cambridge. Yes, that was about all I could take.”

“Huh?”

“Unlike you, I’m not a good sailor, Konoha-san.”

“Drop the suffix, we’re not at high school now, and there’s what? A year between us?”

Fifteen months, he thinks, remembering one end of September training session when Konoha turned eighteen and had promised them cake if anyone could beat Bokuto. It had been warm and damp too, rain falling in fits and starts, and all anyone had wanted was to get back to the gym and practise plays. Then Bokuto had decided in a fit of team spirit to stop just before the finish line, so Konoha had indeed treated them all but hadn’t moaned.

Keiji’s seventeenth that year had been freezing, snow falling in soft flurries around them as they jogged in sweaters and sweatpants, breath clouding around them. That day Konoha had kept pace with Bokuto, his determination equal to their Ace’s, and Keiji, running alongside the pair of them, had felt oddly estranged. He’d dropped back, leaving the two third years to plan the path ahead.

“Earth to Akaashi.”

“Huh?”

“You’re lost in thought.”

“Memories.” He chuckles. “I was remembering your eighteenth birthday and you having to buy cake because Bokuto let us beat him.”

“Bastard!” But he’s grinning. “Let you in on a secret. That was deliberate. Bokuto paid half. Or rather…”

“Shirofuku paid half?” Keiji guesses.

“Yup. It was a muggy claustrophobic day. We’d had that shitty practise match and—” He clicks his tongue. “Nostalgia is a dangerous thing.”

“Is it?”

“Makes you thirsty, for one thing.” Konoha replies lightly, and drains his beer. “Two more, please.”

Returning back to his lodgings later than usual, head spinning after beer barely mopped up by pasta, Keiji leans against the wall and stares up at the starlit sky. It had been good catching up with Konoha, but with very few reminiscences, it occurs to him that Konoha has cornered the market in asking perceptive questions, yet managed to deflect any aimed at himself.

“Do the others know you’re here?” was the only question which he’d received a straight reply.

“Nope.”

But he’d offered no explanation. He’d not asked for anonymity either, but Keiji wasn’t about to break a confidence, even if none has been asked of him.

“You were in late last night, Keiji,” Nonna Bianchi remarks at breakfast. She’s short and cheerful looking, with once brunette hair now a grey arrangement of corrugated curls around her face.

“I’m sorry if I woke you, _Nonna_ ,” he replies.

“No, I was awake anyway,” she rasps, and gives him a smile. “Did you have a good time?”

“Very.” He pauses, then noticing everyone is listening he returns the smile and leans back in his chair. “I met up with a friend from school. We played on the same volleyball team.”

“Volleyball?” Signor Bianchi grins. “You play? I used to play once. It’s a big sport in Italy. Not like football, but we’re pretty good. And your team?”

At that moment he feels his phone vibrate from his shirt pocket. He smiles a little thinking of his locked screen picture of a team who’d reached for the top. Bokuto’s arms are outstretched, obscuring part of Keiji’s face. Konoha is sporting a wide grin, quite unlike his customary smirk, and Onaga’s tears can be seen glimmering down his cheeks. But he’d not been the only one crying that day.

“Not too shabby,” Keiji murmurs. 

“Is he here for long?” Signora Bianchi asks, placing a plate of _fette biscottate_ in the centre of the table, and chiding the children for trying to grab them all before Keiji’s had a chance to select any. “There’s more coffee in the pot.”

In the early days of his stay here, she’d been assiduous as making sure his cup was filled and he never went hungry, but as the weeks have slipped by, Signora Bianchi clearly feels more at ease with having him around, and doesn’t insist on doing everything for him. And he feels at home here too.

“Not sure,” he says, and catches Nonna’s eyes twinkling at him. “I think a week. He travels a lot.”

“A classmate?” she asks.

“Year above me at school.”

“Your senpai!” the Bianchi’s eldest daughter, Rosa aged ten, and an avid anime watcher, says with delight.

“What position did you play?” Signor Bianchi persists, leaning forward to take a roll and spreading it thick with jam. “I was a Middle Blocker, but used to come on as a Pinch Server in school.”

“Setter,” Keiji replies.

“Ah, the clever guys. He nudges his son. “They have to think on their feet, Paolo.”

“I want to be a Setter,” Paolo proclaims, and looks at Keiji with an interest he’s not shown before. “Or the ace!”

“Both cool positions,” Keiji says gravely, and takes a swallow of coffee. “My friend, Konoha, could play both Wing Spiker and Setter, and that’s even cooler.”

“Who was your ace?” Paolo asks.

Pulling out his phone, briefly registering that Konoha has texted already, he flicks to his photos and finds Bokuto in one of their practise matches, just as he was spiking a ball. Bokuto’s face is alive with anticipation and the certainty as he hit that the spike would be untouchable. He remembers the toss well, and how pleased he was Shirofuku had managed to capture the moment.

“Here. This is Bokuto-san. The very best player I ever played with.”

“He has dumb hair,” Rosa says, sniffing.

“Naw, he’s cool!” Paolo breathes.

“And he was good?” Signor Bianchi asks. “Does he still play?”

“Yes.” He snaps a biscotti in half, hoping he doesn’t sound smug but knowing he’s unable to keep the pride out of his tone, “At club level and for Japan.”

Paolo’s eyes are round, and he gapes at Keiji with far more awe than normal. “Will he come and see you, too?”

“Um, probably not. He visited when I was at college with his club team but he’s very busy now. Most of my friends are.”

And he’s surprised that this doesn’t nip at him now. Perhaps it’s because Konoha is here, or maybe he truly doesn’t mind that no one—however valid their reasons—has managed to take a flight while he’s been away.

“Will you see your friend today?” Signora Bianchi asks.

He nods. “I’ll show him some sights, and he wants to try proper Italian ice cream.”

Breakfast ends with a cacophony of opinions on ice cream flavours and when Keiji leaves the house, his head’s still buzzing. Yes, it was noisy and sometimes he minds not have quiet enough to think, but at other times—like now— he is so very grateful to the Bianchis for offering him not just a room, but time with a family.

He meets Konoha at ten in apartment block lobby. For once, Keiji arrives first, but it’s marginal. The lift opens as soon as he’s reached the reception desk and Konoha slinks out, pushing his hair off his face and offering a smile as soon as he spies him. With his slow Italian, he hands in his key, then sticking his phone in his back pocket he saunters out with Keiji, greeting him with a cheerful good morning and asking what the plan is.

“Well, it’s up to you, but we could go to Palazzo Vecchio today. Or if you want to explore a bit more, there’s the cathedral. We could queue to get in there. Or find a park. Sit, have a picnic. Talk?”

“The Palazzo place sounds good to me,” Konoha replies a little too glibly. “And ice cream too.”

“Ah, yes. My hosts insist you try these flavours.” He reels off a list, laughing as Konoha blinks.

“All at the same time?”

“Paolo-chan would say you need to try a scoop of each. He’s rooting for peanut butter and chocolate flavour, by the way. Rosa prefers the fruity ones. Signora Bianchi, my Professor’s sister, insists vanilla is the best. Signor Bianchi is a chocolate man, and his mother likes cherry.”

“And you?”

“I like something a little sharp.”

“Well, duh?” Konoha’s shoulders shake. “You’ve settled in well with a family then?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am. You were kind of closed off at school. But then we were a year apart so what you got up to with your friends, I don’t know.”

_ You _ _were my friends._

He doesn’t speak for a while, walking towards the piazza and letting Konoha take in the sights. He watches him out of the corner of his eyes as his nose crinkles when they pass a particularly good bakery, and sees his interest in the statues on the corner of the square.

“Fond of nudes, these Romans,” Konoha mutters, staring at the replica David and then squinting at Hercules.

“Florentians,” Keiji corrects, but gently. “This is the home of the Italian Renaissance. And this is the palace where the Medicis, who were great patrons, lived.” Gesturing towards the palace, he climbs the steps slowing to wait for Konoha. “Do you want a guidebook?”

“I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

“Sorry, am I annoying?”

“Nope. We only ever talked volleyball before, so it’s good to hear you passionate about something else.”

Keij’s silent as he leads Konoha into the palace. He lets his old senpai drink it in, not just the frescos on the wall, depicting the glory and bloodiness of battle, but the grandeur of the salon, the richness of a bygone age when talent was admired as surely as it was paid for.

“Whoaaaaa.” Konaha’s tone is one of awe, and then there’s a whistle between his teeth as he tilts his head back. “Those ceilings.” He spins around. “Magnificent.”

“First time I came here,” Keiji whispers, “I had neck ache the whole of the next day.”

“Are they all like this?”

“Mainly. The themes are different, though. This is to celebrate the Medicis’ battles and overcoming their enemies because I guess this was where they wanted to present themselves. The private rooms are as elaborate but more personal.”

“Makes sense. Not sure I could sleep looking at guys killing each other, but I guess you’d get used to it.”

They meander through the courtyards, up a small flight of stairs with Konoha still interested, asking questions, which Keiji couldn’t always answer, and not sounding at all bored with the way the day was turning out.

“Ah, you’ll like this one,” Keiji says and with a wisp of a grin on his face, he tugs Konoha towards a separate apartment.

“Uh…”

“Look up. Who do you see?”

“Um…” Konoha obligingly tilts his head back to the ceiling, his eyes scrutinizing the old painting. It’s a tale from Greek mythology, two ladies spinning yarn for another, weaving fine cloth at an imposing loom, all intent on their purpose with watchful eyes. Perhaps it’s because he knows the story, but there’s tension in this painting as tight as the weft and warp threads, and he wonders which of the ladies the painter decided betrayed her mistress.

Konoha’s puzzled.”Why this room?”

“Look at the friezes on the wall, too.”

“Huh? Uh, okay, that’s a sailing guy… that’s a giant being stabbed in the eye ... uh, one eye and … Oh!” His face is wreathed in smiles. “Is this the story of Odysseus?”

“It’s called Penelope’s Room,” Keiji replies and points upwards. “There she is spinning for twenty years, waiting for him, and he’s off having adventures,” he nods at the picture of Circe and another of Calypso, “ _liaisons_ with other women, while she’s patiently weaving to ward off the suitors.”

“He was waylaid!” Konoha protests. “The gods were against him!”

Keiji laughs. “You seem to identify with him.”

“Pfft, there’s no Penelope pining for me.”

There’s something about the way he says it—light and bubbling--yet Keiji feels there’s a loaded intention behind it, and it hangs between them until Konoha tilts his chin to the side and gives a lopsided grin. “Where next?”

Backing away, Keiji turns on the spot to leave the room, to put a little space between them. “Bell tower. This way.”

“Bell tower? Uh… is there a lift?”

“It’s not high like the Skytree so we can walk it.” He turns back, shooting a glance over his shoulder to see Konoha hasn’t moved. “ _Unbelievable_ views. Come on.”

And Konoha unfreezes, the smile which had been rictus-like, melts away. He adjusts the band holding back his hair, then sticking his hands in his pockets, saunters towards Keiji. “Lead on.”

The steps are stone, some wide but tapering as they move upwards. Narrow windows give a gleam of light across the dark rough-brick walls. Because he’s familiar with the climb, Keiji’s surefooted on the steps, remembering each quirk and vagary as he climbs. He’s aware of Konoha behind him, his hand skirting over the rail embedded in the wall. He’s silent, though, apart from his breath quickening as they start a new flight of steps.

“We’re halfway. Do you want a break?”

“I’m not so unfit that I need a rest!” Konoha snaps, then gives a quick sniff as Keiji turns.

“I didn’t think you were unfit,” Keiji starts to explain, but Konoha waves him away.

He grins. “Impatient to see the top, that’s all,” he continues and takes another stride towards the steps. Then he hesitates, pressing his palm flat against the wall, before looking up the next flight. Sunlight streams through the narrow window and as he twists, his face is caught in profile, a silhouette betraying only an outline and nothing of personality. “Come on.”

There’s something resolute about him now, from the heavier footsteps on the stone floor to the eyes focused upwards. His first time here, Keiji had stopped to peer out of the mullioned windows, examining wood panelled doors as he ascended, but Konoha is driving himself like a runner at the Hakone Ekiden determined to get to the summit.

He gets there first, his legs powering up the steps, and when he reaches the top, he twists around to face Keiji. Still in the gloom, all Keiji can see is the sun haloing around Konoha, giving him the appearance of a lion, his mane glorious in the light. The effect is at once astounding and beautiful and he’s catapulted back to a match and a player who’d recovered his supreme confidence after a slump to take the game, the opposition and the crowd by the scruff of the neck to make it his own.

A trick of the light for that was their Ace, and since when has Konoha Akinori lacked confidence? Keiji unfurls his hand from the rail, surprised to find his fingers stiff as if he’d been gripping too tight.

“Made it!” Konoha breathes, but it’s more to himself than to Keiji, his eyes now staring upwards at the deep blue of the sky. “Hey, you’re right about this view. It’s—”

“Breathtaking?” Keiji finishes, blinking as he steps into the sunshine.

It’s beginning to fill up on the parapet, so Konoha bags a spot near one of the turrets on the right side, and leans out, watching the river. Joining him, Keiji points out the bridges he can remember the names of.

“You really are a walking encyclopaedia,” Konoha teases. “What’s that one?”

“Um, Ponte Splendido.”

“Really?”

He leaves it a beat, perfecting his deadpan face before snorting. “I have no idea. We could walk down to it and find out, if you want to.”

“Mmm, later, maybe. Getting acquainted with the bridge that foxed Akaashi could be interesting.” He inhales deeply and closes his eyes. “I like it up here.”

Konoha wanders, or rather shuffles around the tower, inspecting each crenel, waiting patiently for other people to finish their spectating, so he can check the view for himself. It seems odd to Keiji, for the view only changes a couple of paces each time, but he’s content to follow, to answer questions, and listen as Konoha exclaims again.

The bell tower crowd alters as people leave and others join, but Konoha appears to have become a fixture, his gaze back on the river.

“Do you fancy a coffee?” Keiji suggests. “Or ice cream?”

“Give me a moment, will ya?”

But he’s had a few moments, and now Keiji looks closer, his palms are pressed again against the bricks and he’s breathing deeply.

“Konoha-san?”

“Yup, okay.” He swallows. “But, can’t we have both?”

“Or coffee flavoured ice cream?” Keiji agrees.

“Ice cream in my coffee. Gahd, Tatsuki woulda hated that. Never liked anyone messin’ with his food.”

And he’s joking around again, taking strides towards the stairs, his hand reaching out for the rail, and he doesn’t pause at the top, but ploughs straight down the steps, not dawdling to take in any views, just as he had on the way up. As he turns to each flight of steps, Keiji can see his lips moving but he’s not making a sound.

It’s before they’ve made it halfway he stalls. The steps become faltering until he stops mid-flight. They’re in one of the darkest parts of the staircase, and the sunlight can’t reach them here so at first Keiji thinks he’s stumbled. But his breaths have increased.

“Are you tired? Do you need to rest?” Keiji asks, curious because the descent doesn’t take it out of the knees the way the ascent does.

Unless he was hiding an injury? Maybe that’s why he snapped earlier. Perhaps that explains him avoiding everyone in Tokyo.

He tries again. “Are you hurt?”

Konoha shakes his head. “Dark,” he mumbles.

“What?”

He twists his face around, looking past Keiji and up the stairs, but all is gloom and grey and black granite. “So dark. I can’t—”

“Is it your leg? Knee? Ankle?”

“No.”

“Can I help you?” He reaches out touching Konoha’s arm and is surprised to find as he gets closer that he’s beading sweat on his forehead although it’s far cooler on the stairway enclaved in stone than it was on the ramparts.

“I need—” He sinks down, half sitting on a step, half hanging off the rail.

“Are you hurt?” Keiji repeats.

“No. It’s … I can’t.” He grasps Keiji’s hand, squeezing his fingers and his tone becomes imploring. “Help.”

His palm is sweaty too, slippery in Keiji’s hand, but he grips tight. “How?”

“Claustrophobic,” he mutters. “I can’t move.”

“Oh.”

People climb past them, single file on the stairs, and Keiji, aware they’re causing a logjam, attempts to move down to the next flat space. The only way he finds he can manage this is by easing Konoha down each step rather like a toddler navigating stairs on his bottom.

“Sorry,” Konoha rasps when they reach the floor. He slumps down the wall and pulls his knees towards him.

“Shall I go first?” Keiji asks. “Will that make it better? I’ll use my phone for some light if that helps.”

“I need to hold the rail,” he mutters. “But, yeah, thanks.”

He stands up, waits for Keiji to find the torch, and then takes a half step towards the next set of downward stairs.

“Does it help if I talk?” Keiji asks.

He grips his hand even tighter. “No fucking idea. Just get me out of here.”

They’ve gone down another twenty when Konoha speaks. “Are you going through scenarios, Setter-kun?”

“Uh … sort of.”

“Tell me.”

“Case one: You stop and nothing I say can get you going again.”

“I’m still moving.”

A ray of light from a window strikes the path ahead. He hears Konoha exhale slowly.

“Case two: We walk slowly with no problems.”

“That’s good. And case three?”

“Case three:” He pauses.

“What?”

_You have a panic attack and we both fa—_

“It takes us so long that all the ice cream shops have closed for the day,” he lies.

Laughing weakly, Konoha presses his forehead flat against the wall and closes his eyes. “Bet you never thought you’d have to do this crap for me, did ya? I’m supposed to be the responsible senpai, not the infant.”

“Phobias aren’t infantile,” Keiji says, coming closer.

They make it down the next flight, slowly but steadily. Konoha’s breaths are irregular, but his grip on Keiji’s hand has lessened.

“Not long now,” Keiji murmurs.

“Liar,” he whispers, adding, “Thanks though.”

“Halfway,” Keiji promises. “And I’ll buy the ice cream.”

Sunlight has never been so welcome, Keiji thinks when they finally emerge. But even as Konoha slumps against the courtyard wall, he gives a chuckle and a scoff.

“If I’d known this was what it took to get you to hold my hand, I’d have gone up the Skytree with you.”

“You…. what?!” Pulling away, wrenching his hand out of Konoha’s grasp, Keiji tries to take a pace away, but Konoha tugs on his shirt.

“Joke. I’m trying to save face,” he mutters. “I was in danger of imploding up there.”

And in the light he does look pale under his tan. There’s a touch of green around his mouth rendering him sallow. He releases Keiji. “Thank you.”

“Are you okay now?”

“Bit wobbly, but I’ll be fine.” He whistles a breath through his teeth. “This is why I’m better on boats.”

“And diving? Isn’t that constricting?”

“Oddly enough, having a mask clamped over my face doesn’t bother me at all. It’s … walls, I guess.”

“Café?” Keiji suggests.

“Yeah, but I think I’ll skip the coffee. Caffeine will send me even loopier, right now.” He gets to his feet, holds his hand in front of him and flexes the fingers. It’s not trembling now, and his breathing is easier. “Sugar. Something sweet, I think.”

“Pastries or ice cream?”

“Ah I guess.” He’s smiling, a touch ruefully Keiji thinks, but then straightening up he heads towards the exit. “Bye bye Palazzo Vecchio. Something to file away in my memories.”

“Good or bad?”

“It’s not every day you manage to humiliate yourself in front of a kouhai,” Konoha replies as he takes the first step into the piazza, leaning on the replica David.

“Hardly a humiliation, Konoha-san. But if it helps, I shall erase it from my mind.”

“Less of the ‘san,” he chides.

“Then less of the ‘kouhai’.”

“Point taken.”

Feeling twitchy, Konoha declines sitting at a table preferring instead to walk, so Keiji buys a bag of pastries, and they head towards the cathedral. It’s another busy day, and yet there’s no jostling, no desperation to be anywhere but here, with people wending their way around each other.

There are buskers in the archways, chalk artists sitting on pavement, jugglers and mimes lining the perimeter of the cathedral. They pause by each one, munching pastries and throwing coins in hats before moving onto the next. There’s a smattering of conversation as Konoha asks the odd question, but most of the time they’re quiet with each other as they drink in the atmosphere.

“Lively, here,” Konoha says, licking the last of the icing sugar off his fingers.

“It’s good at night too. Like a mini-festival.”

“I like the sound of that even more,” he says, and casts Keiji a sideglance. “Might even get you dancing.”

“I’ll watch,” he demurs.

“As always.”

When they won big, there was always music; the third years would let off steam as they changed by dancing in the changing rooms. Bokuto used to treat the locker doors as drums and leap into the centre, hooting to the ceiling. But although he’d exhort the others to join in, Keiji had always felt it was a third year ritual, one he was too shy to enter into, one he was content to watch as he unwound and packed up his bag. The odd thing he remembered about those times was how—despite his extravagance—Bokuto wasn’t the dancer who caught Keiji’s eye. Perhaps it was simply that he’d dominated on court, so in the downtime Keiji was weary, but he’d find his attention sliding to the others.

Konoha used to dance lazily, like his smile. One hip shifting up and down, the rhythm intrinsic.

“Do you just not like dancing?” Konoha asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Not sure I have any feelings about it either way. Do you want lunch?”

His mouth twitches. “I’ve just devoured a bag of pastries. But go ahead.” He assesses the cathedral in front of them, raising his eyes to the top. “I didn’t ask, sorry, but is me visiting convenient?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re here to work, aren’t you? Have I disturbed that?”

“Oh … no, not really. The Professor is away so there’s nothing pressing. I have some work I can get on with, but it’s not urgent.”

“But I am keeping you from it.”

“Having time off is good for the soul.” He closes his eyes, letting the sun grace his face. “Apart from coming back here tonight, is there anything else you’d like to do?”

“I’m happy enough. But … uh … don’t feel you have to chaperone me all the time.”

Looking over, Keiji sees Konoha flick his attention back to one of the musicians. He’s running his fingers through his hair.

“You are my guest,” he demurs.

“Uninvited,” Konoha counters. He shrugs. “I’m just saying that if you have some stuff you need to get on with, then I’m happy enough for an hour or two exploring. Might even escape the sun and go back to the hotel for a siesta!”

“You want rid of me already, Konoha-san?” he asks solemnly.

“No…nooooo… I … just…” He’s begins to twist his hair as he strives to think what to say.

Keiji snorts.

“You asshole! Thought I’d offended you!!” Konoha protests.

“Not at all. Look, let’s get this straight. I’m pleased you’re here. You weren’t ‘uninvited’ but a surprise guest and a welcome one at that. I like showing you around and if I’m not boring you—” He lifts his palm as Konoha swiftly denies the charge. “ _If_ I’m not boring you then I’ll happily continue for as long as you’re here. But…”

And now he bites his lip.

“But what?” Konoha shuffles backwards a touch warily.

A deep breath, but he ploughs on. “If I’m becoming a wall, then I’ll understand if you want to be alone.”

“A wall?”

Just say it. Out in the open, under the clear skies, say what’s been nagging at you since that message. “Konoha-san, you’ve by and large left us, left Japan and Fukurodani behind, for over four years. I presume you needed space, time to breathe, Sarukui said.”

Konoha whistles through his teeth, long and slow before replying. “You always were perceptive. So let me be up front with you. You’re not a wall. I don’t think I need space from you. Bu you are right that I did need to be away from everything.”

“And now?”

“I’m dipping my toe back in the water, testing the temperature.”

“Is it cold?”

“No, it’s surprisingly warm.” He’s smiling again, and now turns to face Keiji. “I am, however, a little tired still, so how about I go back to my hotel for a sleep and a change of clothes, and we meet back here later. Then you can get on with some work.”

“How did you—”

Stretching, he smother’s a yawn. “You always finished your school work before tournaments, never asking for extensions like the rest of us. It’s like you don’t want it hanging over you.” His wink is slow and barely there. “Some habits don’t change, right?”

But it’s the wink that does it, causing a husk in Keiji’s throat which he can’t shift unless he coughs, so he nods stupidly, and fixes what he hopes is an enigmatic smile on his face but says nothing.

“So…” Stepping backwards, Konoha flourishes a bow towards him. “Until tonight, kouhai. And don’t work too hard!”

“Less of the kouhai,” he manages to rasp, but by then Konoha has been half swept into the throng.

****

In what appears to be a pattern, Konoha is there before him. Sitting at a table outside one of the cafes, he’s sipping a beer, leaning back in his chair, one foot across his knee as he waits. He raises his hand to Keiji, a gesture of welcome but also summoning a waitress.

“Beer?”

Keiji takes the offered seat. “Please. Did you sleep?”

“I did. I’ve learned the art of a catnapping. Did you get your work done?”

He shakes his head. “Bit noisy. The Bianchis’ children aren’t in school and all they want to do is talk volleyball.” He accepts the beer as the waitress returns. “I don’t usually work at home, but the Professor’s locked his rooms up and forgot to leave a key.”

“Can’t you lock them out, or stick your headphones on?” Konoha rolls his eyes. “No, of course you can’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“You never could refuse Bokuto, so…”

“You make a good point.” He swallows down some beer, liking the way the faint fizz prickles his tongue.

“You’re not arguing. Dammit!”

“It’s too nice an evening. And I’d only bring up the subject of Fukurodani…”

Konoha laughs. “You always did shoot from the hip.”

They drink and chat for a while, and Keiji watches as Konoha unwinds, talking about Greece and the conservation he got involved in.

“Where else did you go? Saru-san mentioned Malaysia.”

(“He’s so close! Why don’t we all get over there now? Surprise him!”

“Leave him, Koutarou. He’ll be back when he’s ready.”)

“Oh, yeah. Orang-utan sanctuary. Very different.” He pauses, adding before Keiji could speak, “I’m more of a … a … an aqua person, I guess, but it was good work and a great learning experience.”

“And do you think you’ll come home soon? There must be conservation work you could do in Japan.”

“Pot Kettle Black, kouhai,” he murmurs, leaning forward. “There must be translation work you could do in Tokyo. Or are you running too?”

“Running?” He blinks, shuttering off his eyes as he thinks of a response. “Are you running, Konoha?”

“Yeah, but then I haven’t denied that. It got too much. Isn’t that what you all thought when I chucked in the degree and stayed here. But you… what is it about ‘home’ that’s made you want to leave?” He sips the rest of his beer, eyes narrowing as he peruses Keiji, who hasn’t been able to think of a way past the intense scrutiny.

“You were seeing someone, weren’t you? The Karasuno guy? Was it _that_ bad a break up?”

Pressing his fingers together to make a bridge in front of his mouth, Keiji assesses the question, then gives his interrogator the tightest of smiles. “Mutual agreement, actually.”

“Ah, that story.”

“It’s … true.” He shrugs away Konoha’s smile.

“It’s _never_ mutual. At least, there’s always someone who makes the first decision, and then the other person has the choice of fight or … flight.”

“I’m not in flight.” Exhaling he collects his words, stringing them together as carefully as a pattern of beads so there’s no error. “Yes, he suggested it. I … I disputed it at first, or I meant to, but … you can’t make someone stay with you, can you?” Draining his glass, he signals to the waitress. “Another?”

“Mmm, and maybe some food to mop this up.”

He waits for the waitress to take their order before continuing, but when he speaks it’s not to press Keiji for more information.

“When I broke up with Kaori, I told her it was because of the distance, but I came back pretty often and she hadn’t left, so I wasn’t surprised when she accused me of having someone else.”

Suzumeda’s eyes had been red for a week during practise. She blamed a cold, but Keiji had wondered. “And did you?” he asks.

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t so much geographical distance as … I wanted the possibility of space and some _thing_ else, even then. She was another tie—sorry that sounds so brutal. I tried to let her down gently, and we kept in touch, but in the end it might have been better if I’d lied.”

He swallows. “What I’m trying to say, very clumsily, is that your crow probably did the right thing.”

“I know that now. But at the time it felt like a defeat. We already had a long distance relationship, so …” He stops talking, pleased to his core, that the waitress is heading their way with a basket of bread, olives and more beer.

They don’t mention their shared past in Tokyo again, the conversation slips to the present, the everyday with tiny hints of the future, and Keiji finds his shoulders unknotting as he listens to Konoha’s melifluous voice speaking of the sea and beaches and drinking retsina while waiting for the sunrise.

Somewhere along the way, Konoha orders a bottle of wine. It’s not something Keiji usually drinks, but he accepts a glass and finds he quite likes the blackcurrenty-ness and the smell which Konoha says is its ‘bouquet’.

“Where did you learn this?”

“I waited tables in restaurants. The manageress of this one place in Lakitira wanted to train me to be a ‘sommelier’.”

“Hmm?”

“Posh word for wine waiter.” His grin is wicked. “She said I had the tongue for it.”

“And you didn’t go for it?”

“Would have meant commitment. Gahd, this pizza is goo-ood.” Folding over a slice, he tears into it and the next time he speaks, it’s a different story, a café he worked in where he learned how to make dolmades and went out on the boats with the fishermen.

In return, Keiji tells him about the punt in Cambridge, how he was pushing the boat along with the pole and almost fell in when it got stuck in the mud. He speaks of English pubs and the cultural obsession with beer, football and the weather.

“Would you go back?”

“If the right opportunity came along, then yes, but there are other places I want to see.” He glugs at the wine. “I’m due back in Tokyo in three months when this contract finishes.”

“You could go elsewhere?”

He shakes his head. “Cousin’s wedding. I have to be there on pain of death! After that, we’ll see.”

“You don’t sound … uh … enamoured.”

“It’s fine. I like her, and the guy she’s marrying seems fine. We always got along, but … well, family things. There’s always the older aunts asking why I haven’t settled down, or why aren’t I seeing a nice girl?”

“They don’t know about your Karasuno romance then?”

“Nope. Mum and Dad do. They like him, you know. Cousin does as do her parents, but the older generation…” He trails off, drinks more wine, slopping it over the rim of the glass, then clears his throat. “I’m keeping quiet. Don’t want to destroy all their illusions about me.”

“Which are?”

His head is spinny from the alcohol, so he reaches for the last slice of garlic bread and chews on it, but if he thinks this will stop Konoha’s questioning, he’s mistaken.

“What illusions do they have about you, Akaashi?” Konoha whispers as he leans across the table. “What spells have you woven?”

The gaze is intense, but he holds it, pours himself more wine and swallows the bread. “I destroyed one when I took classics and came out here. I was apparently destined to be a doctor. Now they’ve decided I’m going to be a politician.”

“A WHAT???” Konoha laughs. “Oh My God! Why would they want that for you?”

“I don’t know.” He starts to laugh. “They think it’s respectable, or rather it’s more respectable than bumming across Europe.”

“Tell them you want to be a diplomat. They work abroad!”

“Good idea.”

“Mind you, you could work for the diplomatic service for real with your talents. I don’t just mean dealing with our errant captain, but your translating skills must be useful. Is that what you want to do?”

“No.” The denial has left his lips before he’s had a chance to put a guard there.

“Oya … that was quick. What’s your plan?”

He waves away the question.

“Naw, tell me.”

“Not everyone has a plan.”

“True. _I_ don’t.” He tops up Keiji’s glass then fills his own. “But you were always _sooo_ meticulous. I’m not sure you know how to be spontaneous.”

“And that’s a bad thing,” Keiji states.

“Nice deflection. But tell me, what was your plan? What was the thing you wrote that you wanted to do in your ‘Ten Years from Now’ essay when you were fifteen?”

“Win Nationals,” he fires back.

“At fifteen, yes, but twenty-five?”

“Another time,” he prevaricates. “What did you write in yours?”

“I had to put something, so I said ‘pro-volleyball player’.”

“Oh.”

“I lied. I think. I mean at the time I was pretty much taken up with volleyball, but then we all were. Meeting and playing with our ‘star’ put things into a better perspective.” He squints over his glass. “Is that what you put? Play for Japan.”

Shaking his head, Keiji refuses to say anymore and Konoha’s stare stops being quite so relentless. He changes the subject, and when the waitress saunters their way, he asks for the bill.

They head off for the Domo and following the sound of laughter and music arrive to see two violinists in what appears to be a duel. Students, probably, busking for spending money, but they both play well, and to Keiji it’s another magical evening under clear skies. He glances at Konoha hoping he’s not bored and itching to move, and to his relief, there’s a smile on his face, and he’s tilted his head to the side.

“This is cool,” he breathes.

“I love it,” Keiji admits.

“I can see why you came back. This whole city … it buzzes.”

The violinists pause and take a bow, and as Konoha walks forward to drop some coins in their hat, a girl in a black lacy dress, touches his arm. He looks down at her, indicating he doesn’t speak Italian, glances across at Keiji, but she begins her speech again, this time in English. He laughs, carries on the conversation, then, as the musicians begin again, he disentangles himself and steps back to Keiji.

“You made a friend.”

“She was talking about a club… I think. Wondered if I wanted to go along.”

“And do you?”

“When there’s music here for free. Besides, I’m here with you.” He breaks off as a melody lilts towards them. “Oh, I know this!”

They’ve switched to contemporary songs, crowd pleasers to get everyone on the mood, and it’s certainly working because the buzz increases and Konoha’s already moving his hips as a prelude to dancing.

The girl returns flashing a smile at Konoha then turning her attention to Keiji. “It is a good club,” she insists. “You can both come along. Free drinks.”

“All night?” Keiji asks her.

“First one,” she amends, thrusting a flyer into his hands, then grabs them both and starts to move. “Lots of dancing.”

“Not my thing,” he replies, snatching his hands away. And he wanted to say that gently but her persistence is jarring.

“But you, signor,” she asks, facing Konoha. “You like to dance?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. But we’re fine here, thank you. _Grazie!_ ”

She still doesn’t leave, but continues to move, swaying her body in time to the music, and Konoha after a sigh and eye roll at Keiji, follows her closer to the music.

It’s as if he’s back in the changing room, and despite the noise and exuberance of Bokuto, all Keiji can see is Konoha’s moves, his hypnotic hips and that flickering smile as he writhes in perfect time.

He clenches his teeth. _Don’t fall for the straight guy, Keiji._

Another girl in a similar dress approaches. She wears a similar smile and a determined look in her eye as she takes Keiji’s arm. And short of literally pushing her away, there’s nothing he can do except go along with the charade.

The girl twirls around him, chattering to her friend in Italian, most of which he picks up but doesn’t betray he can understand her.

“Good looking. Do you think they’ll come along?”

“Hope so. Tourists are rich and I’d like champagne tonight.”

“Relax,” Konoha murmurs.

“I don’t like performing.”

“You did for three years.”

“No, I could hide in the team,” he counters and twists away deciding he’s done.

Yet the music continues, the melodies weaving around his mind and he stays where he is, moving to the beat and trying not to watch Konoha who is again slinking along the pavement, flicking his hair off his face and bestowing the most languorous smiles on anyone watching. It’s so very public, and yet Konoha makes it seem far more intimate, a private performance, uninhibited as if he’s alone in front of a mirror. He releases the girl at the end of the song, gives her a bow, then turns and plucks on Keiji’s arm.

“Loosen up. You’re good at this, you know!”

“I don’t know—”

Taking his hand he pulls him a little closer. “Yeah you do,” he exhorts. “Follow my lead.”

And now there’s no way he can’t not look at Konoha. He can avoid his eyes, but he has to watch his feet, his legs, his hips and now his ass as he twirls around and gives a wiggle as he laughs.

And it should all be too much. He should step away, give light applause and leave Konoha to his spotlight, but the wine is stealing over his body and under the starlight and Konoha’s guidance he fancies himself limber and lithe.

“See,” Konoha hisses, leaning towards him. “There’s nothing to it.”

As Konoha places his wrists on Keiji’s shoulders, one of the girls rasps out in Italian, “Oh God, get a room!”

“I’d like to,” Keiji snaps back, and is rewarded by the shock on her face when she realises he’s understood them all this time.

“Hey, where are they going?” Konoha laughs.

“To find other stooges, probably.” Stumbling, he falls back, saved from falling by Konoha gripping his shirt and setting him right.

“Careful.”

“Bit drunk,” Keiji says, and sniffs. “Sorry. I scared them off, but they were after free drinks all night, not just your presence in the club.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Konoha mutters. “I wasn’t going to go anyway.” He peers at Keiji. “You okay? Do you want to sit down?”

“Can we walk?”

They move away from the music and the bustle, Konoha picking up two bottles of water on the way, and meander a little haphazardly until it’s just the pair of them in a darkened street. There, Keiji stops, swigs some water and peeps at Konoha. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“Rotting up your evening. Not a great host, am I?”

“You haven’t rotted up anything!”

“You could still be dancing with that girl. She was pretty.” He stares up at the sky, hoping the stars will clear his head. “Oh my god, I might have ruined your future. What if you were destined to be together with club hostess girl and have a whole volleyball team of children?”

“Whole team, huh? Rather not.” He sniggers. “What did you say to get them to leave?”

“Your one yelled at us to get a room, so I said ‘I’d like—” He presses his lips together, but the words are out and he can’t suck them back in. “Uh, yeah forget that. Sorry.”

“What for now?”

“I kind of implied, or at least didn’t dis-a… uh … disv… dis-a-vow,” he says carefully, “her jibe that we were a couple.” He slumps against the wall. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Go after her. I’m sure she won’t mind and you can snog the life out of her, drink more and have a really great evening instead of being stuck—”

There’s a finger on his lips, and a ‘hush’ in his ear. And Konoha doesn’t move away so his breath is hot on Keiji’s neck.

“I like being with you,” Konoha whispers and his mouth brushes Keiji’s cheek.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.” He inches even closer, and now his lips dust Keiji’s temple.

“B-b-but you’re …” He blinks too fast, his brain now a confused mass of jumbled thoughts and electric impulses driven by Konoha’s proximity and the fact that one of his hands has snaked around Keiji’s waist. He pulls away. “Kaori,” he says at last. “You’re …”

“If you want a label, then I’ll go with pansexual,” Konoha says and takes a baby step back. “And Kaori was a very long time ago.”

“You’re not straight?”

“Never have been,” Konoha mutters. “Is it a problem for you?”

“No.”

“Then…”

In answer, Keiji holds out his hand and closes the distance between them.

There’s an infinitesimally small hesitation before they kiss, a tiny pause, an intake of breath and eyes locking before they move slowly and irrevocably towards each other. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Keiji knows he’s thought about kissing him, but he can’t recall what he’d thought it would feel like, just that somehow, somewhere and sometime he wanted to.

There’s no crashing of lips, or clashing of teeth. No ‘tongues battling for dominance’. There’s a soft pouting on his cheek, and then a breath until they find each other’s mouths. Konoha cups Keiji’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking his jaw and it’s that delicate touch that sends Keiji’s head spinning and he surrenders himself entirely to the moment.

His fingers twist in Konoha’s hair, drawing him even closer until their bodies are pressed together. Now Konoha’s mouth drifts to Keiji’s neck. He utters a gasp to the air then trails his hands to Konoha’s shoulders and back, pressing in his fingers into the muscles until he finds his waist.

It’s Konoha who breaks away first. Their foreheads touch as they breathe in perfect time with each other, and again he’s smiling, his voice susurrus, to whisper, “Really hoped that would happen, but now I have a problem.”

“What’s that?” Keiji slumps a little into him.

“You,” he replies and pecks Keiji in the tip of his nose, “are gorgeous, but you’re also quite pissed and uh …”

“No, nooo, I’m fine,” Keiji assures him, but he closes his eyes and shakes his head unsure whether the wall is spinning because of the alcohol or because he’s intoxicated with Konoha.

“I don’t want you regretting anything,” he mutters, “so, even though this could be a huge mistake, I think we should stop now, and then we can meet up tomorrow.” He kisses him again, somewhere on his temple. “If you want to, of course.”

Hiccupping softly, Keiji nods. “I will want to.”

“I hope so.”

“No, I will.” He tries to step back, hoping if he can get a little distance, he can add some _gravitas_ to assure Konoha he’s sincere and not just a drunk who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Then he stumbles again and starts to giggle.

Konoha hauls him up and threads his arm under Keiji’s shoulders. “Come on, beautiful. I’m taking you home.”


	2. Idyll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Akaashi's birthday, have chapter 2!

**[Potential** **outcomes of our ‘dalliance’ last night:  
Case A: We put it down to too much wine, dismiss it and carry on sightseeing.  
Case B: One of us wants to continue the other doesn’t and it becomes awkward so I leave early.  
Case C: Both of us enjoyed it and want more.]**

**[Akaashi?]**

**[You awake?]**

He huffs out a long, long breath, finishes the glass of water on his bedside table and runs over the message from Konoha in his mind.

Potential outcome of …

_Oh Jeez, what am I even trying to think through here. If I don’t answer, then does that imply B. Maybe I should answer A because that’s kind of easiest and least troublesome outcome, but then what if it meant something to him and …_

He’d walked him to his front door, ensured he’d not fallen over the doorstep, then ruffled his hair as he’d left.

_He’ll leave Florence._ _Is that for the best?_

That way they could go back to normal, he could forget this and then maybe when they saw each other again, he could remain impassive and unmoving and pretend that…

_Or ‘if’ we ever see each other again._

He could feel sweat beading on his brow.

_Okay, so he’s offered Case A, which must mean … something. _

_What does it mean?_

_That he’s not bothered, but then B is there and that’s—_

Konoha. Will. Leave.

Would he have offered Case C if he didn’t want to see what happened?

His lips had demanded a response. A response which last night, even though the haze of alcohol, Keiji had been only too willing to surrender. But it hadn’t only been the wine, or the stars, or the music, or Konoha’s hypnotic dancing. He realises it wasn’t just last night, but…

Oh shit.

_Answer you idiot, or he’ll leave!_

_[C!]_

Time elapsed: Four minutes.

Answer, damn you, answer.

His phone vibrates. He almost drops it.

“How’s the head?” Konoha asks, sounding sleepy.

_Oh, has he not seen my reply? Why the small talk?_

“Uh…” He shakes it from side to side. “Not bad. I drank a lot of water and …”

“So it’s clear?”

“Mmhmm?”

“And you didn’t m-mistype your reply?”

It’s the stammer that does it. Keiji collapses back on his bed and smiles into the phone. “I meant it.”

“I am only here for five more days,” he mutters.

His hesitancy causes Keiji’s confidence to surge. It’s akin to being on court when back in the day he’d notice Bokuto getting twitchy, and knowing, knowing, _knowing_ , that now was the time to let him back in the game. “Then let’s make them count.”

“I am _so_ glad you said that! Wanna grab breakfast?”

“Can do. I know a good—”

Konoha coughs. “Here. Come over. We can get a headstart on the day. You can bring work with you, if you want. I can always go for a run while you get on.”

With a garbled goodbye and apology to Signora Bianchi, Keiji is ready to leave the house within half an hour. She smiles assuring him it’s fine and she doesn’t think him rude.

“Since you arrive here, you’ve had no fun,” she tells him and hands over a paper bag of fresh figs. “Go spend the day with your friend, and … what is that in your bag? Not work?”

“A little,” he replies backing away before she can wrench the books from his rucksack. “Thank you so much for the figs. I’m sure my friend will think them delicious!”

He’s still smiling when he reaches Konoha’s block but he takes a breath before he presses the buzzer to be let in. The reply is reassuringly instant, as is the opening of the door, which happens as soon as Keiji raps on it.

“Hiiiii.” Konoha stands in his doorway, head tilted to the side, assessing Keiji. “You came prepared then.”

“Figs,” he replies and hands them over. “From Signora Bianchi, who is pleased I’m having some fun at last.”

Backheeling the door closed, Konoha threads his fingers through Keiji’s rucksack straps and pulls him closer. “What sort of fun does she have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” Keiji mutters, and kisses him softly on the lips. “But probably not this.”

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Konoha whispers, and kisses him back.

“You know what’s odd,” Konoha says when he finally breaks away.

“This?” Keiji blinks, inches back and hopes he’s not come on too strong.

“More, is it odd that this doesn’t feel odd? Anyway, breakfast is served, signor!”

Breakfast is strong coffee from a cafetière, a platter of cut strawberries and peach slices, and the offer of eggs. As Konoha cooks, Keiji sits at the small round kitchen table, quarters the figs and ponders why this feels so not-awkward.

“Maybe it’s because we know each other,” he says.

Their thoughts have kept pace. Konoha nods and swallows a mouthful of his own drink. “There’s some kind of inevitability about it.”

“Inevitability?”

“We know each other. We’re out of our usual fish bowl, and … you’re kinda hot.”

“Is that why you got in touch?” He’s not sure if that makes things better or worse. Was this all part of a plan? Has Konoha been thinking about him for months or years even? Is that … wrong? He chews his lip and cuts into another fig.

“No,” Konoha replies, and slowly folds over an omelette before slipping it onto Keiji’s plate. “You’re overthinking this. Stop.”

“Then? What? An impulse?”

Sliding into the seat opposite, Konoha stares at him. “You were close by. I had some free time and recently I’ve been feeling nostalgic about the team and all that stuff.” Picking up a fork, he cuts into the omelette. “The fact that you’re fucking gorgeous wasn’t on the radar… until I saw you. Is that okay?”

He nods and cuts into his own omelette. It’s fluffy and hot, with peppers and chorizo, and an ooze of cheese. Back in the day, Konoha didn’t cook. He was known as a klutz in the kitchen, unable to even work the rice cooker and was the last person called upon to help at Training Camp. Keiji supposes it’s something he’s picked up along the way, in the cafés he’s worked in, or to keep himself fed. And he thinks about all the things they’ve shared together and how much they don’t know.

And maybe that’s part of the fun –that they are at once familiar with each other, rediscovering the patterns of adolescence, and yet unfamiliar because the years have wrought changes.

“Nostalgic?” he queries, wondering if he’ll open up.

But his question’s waved away. “Not now. Eat up while it’s hot, and pass me a fig will you?”

Handing them over, Keiji watches as Konoha bites into one. His white, even teeth, bite into the pink flesh. They’re ripe and juicy and soon there’s juice trickling down Konoha’s chin. He smiles.

“What’s so funny?” Konoha asks, and picks up a paper napkin to blot away the excess.

“I was thinking of a passage in a book I read, where the main characters are eating figs together.”

Konoha leans forward. “Eating scenes in books are either sensual or designed to show someone as a pig, so what am I?”

“Or they’re the scene of a murder,” Keiji muses.

“Murder by fig!” He clasps his throat. “I knew it!” Then he grins and selects a peach slice. “In your book do the hero and heroine live happy ever after?”

“They’re two men,” Keiji replies, “and both die, but at least they’re together in the end.”

“Racy stuff.” He licks his lips, taking far too long. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Biting into a strawberry, Keiji takes his time. “Sensual definitely.”

“That’s fortunate. I’d hate to expose you to my piggish ways this early in the day.”

“You forget I’ve seen you and Sarukui-san fighting over karaage.”

“He stole my last bit. I was saving it!” Konoha protests. “And it wasn’t my fault the bowl smashed!” Then he laughs. “Well, not entirely my fault. Jeez, when was that?”

“My first year. Meal after that match in May.”

“Wow, good memory.”

“I’d been subbed in and stayed on for the last set, that’s why I remember. That and Bokuto going through one of his epic meltdowns. No one got through to him that day.”

“Did we lose? I can’t remember.”

“No, there was a third year … uh … Abe-san, and he pulled off a series of serves, then Washio dug in and won the game with a blockout.” He selects a fig, enjoying the freshness. “You and Saru never fought again over food.”

“Not if he didn’t want a chopstick shoved somewhere unpleasant.” Konoha scowls then grins again. “Gahd, Abe-san, wonder what happened to him. Oh, you’re going to tell me right?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t have a clue. He didn’t go to University. Think he wanted to become a pro, but … well … not seen him anywhere.”

“He was a pinch server at best,” Konoha dismisses. “Sometimes you have to know your limits.”

And like that, Keiji knows he’s not talking about Abe anymore. There’s something closed off in Konoha’s face, a momentary bitterness or is it resignation, before he spears another peach slice into his mouth and offers Keiji more coffee.

“I don’t think I can run for at least an hour,” he says as he clears the table. “If you want to get on with some work, then I’ll put headphones on though.”

“I came to see you,” Keiji says, and slips his hand over Konoha’s. “Work can wait.”

He faces Keiji, hoiking him closer. “Then so can the washing up.”

***

He goes for a run mid-morning, leaving Keiji to his work. But although he pulls out his books and plugs in his laptop, Keiji is unable to concentrate on anything other than the thunk of his heart and the swoop in his stomach when he thinks of Konoha kissing him. He’s giddy, catapulted back to his first days at Fukurodani—or even before—when he discovered the star that was Bokuto Koutarou and could see the heavens in his grasp. But this is different; this isn’t about a team, or gaining glory. This is raw and feral, internal desires swirling and threatening to spill. It’s the feel of lips against skin, that slow groan at the back of his throat, and Konoha’s hot breath on his neck.

With a swift shake of his head, he clicks back on his laptop and stares at the page he’s been working on. But none of it seems to make any sense, and then an impulse takes hold and he opens up another document. A new page often intimidates him, but this is clean, clutterless and there’s a long-forgotten excitement thrumming similar to getting on the coach before an important game.

He doesn’t hear the door click shut when Konoha gets home. It could have been a good few minutes, or just seconds when he looks up and sees Konoha watching him from the doorway. Red-faced, sweaty, with his tee shirt outside his shorts and his hair tied back, he’s out of breath but still flaps his hand when he catches Keiji’s eyes.

“Going well, then?” he pants.

“Sort of.” He clicks the tab shut and gets to his feet. “Water?”

“Please. Then I’ll shower.”

“Good run?”

“Yeah, not bad at all.” Accepting the glass, he wanders across to the counter and leans on it as he sips. “You looked engrossed. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You didn’t. I can pick it up any time.”

He nods, drains the glass then sidesteps out of the kitchen and to the shower.

Hearing the hum of the water, Keiji reopens the document, reads back the last few sentences and types a few more. Somewhere in his head a story is forming, and he needs to grasp this chance before it disappears completely, so he jots down bullet points, odd things that occur to him, that could happen in this day that could also have occurred then. And then there are the differences. The adventure of it all and how easy—

“FUCK!”

“Konoha-san.”

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! OW, OW, OW!”

“Are you okay?” He gets to his feet, scraping the chair across the tiles and rushes to the door.

“Can you get me some plasters or something? There’s a first aid kit in the cupboard.”

“Sure.” In his mind, he’s already working out the best route to the hospital. “What’s the matter?”

“Stubbed my fucking toe on the fucking scales. Don’t want to bleed all over the carpet.”

Downgrading from emergency to minor injury, Keiji locates the first aid kit and rushes to the bathroom.

Konoha is sitting on the bathroom mat, his hand wrapped round his toe. There’s a small smear of blood on the scales and a red set of toeprints on the tiles. He blinks.

“Do you think it’s broken?”

“No, just fricking painful. Toenail bent back too.” He unfurls his hand, and blood dribbles out. “Jeez, I’m a klutz!”

“Let me,” Keiji offers and finding a wedge of cotton wool, he dabs away the blood. It’s not a bad wound, there’s nothing raw or open to see, and the fact that Konoha’s only wincing and not yelling as Keiji applies antiseptic then wraps the toe in gauze causes Keiji to downgrade it even further to minor annoyance.

Konoha flexes his bandaged toe pronounces himself ‘fixed’ and then reaches out his hand to touch Keiji’s cheek. “You’re a beautiful nurse.”

“And you’re—” About to say something facetious, Keiji’s attention is suddenly brought to the fact that while he’s fully clothed, Konoha isn’t and save for a skimpy towel draped round his hips, he’s entirely naked as the day he was born.

“I’ll … uh … leave you to it,” he mutters and stands up.

“Help me up first, will you?” Konoha asks, then stares at him. “You’re blushing! Why are you… oh … OH!” Then he laughs. “Akaashi, how many changing rooms have we shared?”

“That’s different. We weren’t … um …”

“Oh… so what you’re saying is that now we’re ‘umming’ it’s different?”

“Um, well…”

“Or is it that now you’ve seen me more or less naked you’ve remembered how hideous I was in school and you no longer want to ‘um’ at all?”

Despite his flaming cheeks, Keiji shoots him one of his best ‘looks’.

“Then… ” Konoha whispers not the slightest bit abashed. He shuffles closer, tugging on Keiji’s hand until he sits back on the floor. “What is the issue?”

Drops of water glisten on his skin. His soaked hair hangs past his shoulders, sticking to his back, and as he looks closer, he sees a patch of soap bubbles on Konoha’s chest. Leaning forwards, Keiji inhales a citrus scent mixed with warmth, and smoothes his thumb across Konoha’s chest. And then all he can see and hear and taste and touch is Konoha’s mouth on his.

As they kiss they sink to the floor, lying side by side. The tiles are hard, damp with condensation but the discomfort Keiji feels is secondary to not wanting to interrupt this moment. Konoha holds him close, his arms snaking around his waist as his hand slips under his shirt, and his fingers trace circles on his back.

“I seem to be using you as a towel,” Konoha murmurs, pulling on Keiji’s now damp shirt. “And we really should even this up. Want to take this somewhere more comfortable?” He tilts his head as Keiji hesitates. “We don’t have to. I’ll understand if you just want this to be … uh …”

In reply, Keiji kisses him hard on the mouth, his hands cupping his face. He rises to sitting, pulling Konoha with him, and together they kiss and shuffle, shuffle and kiss across the hallway, while Konoha tugs off Keiji’s shirt, and his fingers slip inside his shorts. Like a desert explorer parched of water, Keiji capitulates. His fingers twine in Konoha’s hair as he surrenders to each caress in this oasis. He wants to drink from its well, and smother himself in every touch as every nerve tingles from the attention. Like a touch starved lone sailor let loose at a port, Keiji barrels headlong into each feathersoft petalling of fingertips as Konoha propels them both towards his bed where they collapse.

“I haven’t ….” Keiji begins and screws up his eyes. “I mean, I have, but not for a while—” He moans as Konoha nuzzles his neck.

“We’ll take this very slow,” he assures Keiji. “As slow as you want and we can stop anytime, do whatever you want. I’m just …” He trails off and slips a hand between Keiji’s thighs. “So fucking turned on. Gah, this is unreal.”

Gaining confidence, Keiji moves his palm to Konoha’s abdomen, and drifts his fingers downwards. There’s a gasp, and a low moan before Konoha slides Keiji’s shorts down his legs.

There’s no race or desperation, but a slow discovery, kisses on lips, and necks, and chests and shoulders. There’s time for Keiji’s mind to wonder at it all, and time to wander with his hands and tongue, to take in the breadth of Konoha’s chest, and the smattering of freckles across his nose. And then, as Keiji unfurls his fingers and shifts to take them both in one hand, Konoha thrusts harder and lets out a guttural groan.

In the aftermath, Konoha kisses him long and languorously. There’s a soft chuckle in his throat, yet his hands cupping Keiji’s face are gentle. “That was …” he murmurs.

“Mindblowing,” Keiji agrees and reaches up to run his fingers through Konoha’s still damp hair.

They stare at each other, the expression ‘cat that’s got the cream’ occurs to Keiji, and he wonders if he looks as satisfied, or whether he’s settled back into impassivity again. He tries a smile, and Konoha kisses the corner of his mouth, before smoothing his thumb over Keiji’s eyebrows.

“Hey, were your eyes always blue? Coulda sworn they were green.”

“Do you want to visit anything today?” Keiji asks later. They’re still on the bed, with tee shirts on and finishing off the last of the figs, and his inclination is to stay where he is. But Konoha is here on a break so he guesses he should make the effort.

Konoha wipes some juice off his chin, sighs mournfully, and presses a sticky kiss on Keiji’s bare arm. “Thing is, my toe is _so_ bad that I’m sure I should stay in bed … at least for the rest of today.

Dinner that evening is noisy and cheerful. The Bianchi children again pester Keiji with questions. It’s like a floodgate has opened and they now see him not as a rather reserved guest in their house but an older brother or cousin. He wonders if it’s because he mentioned volleyball, but that’s not all they want to talk about. Rosa asks him question after question about Japan, wanting to know more words, whereas Paolo quizzes him about anime then football, and if Keiji’s ever played. And he answers all their questions, but it’s rather like a volleyball match seeing the ball fly back across the net and unsure who to watch because every player is Bokuto or Hinata. He laughs to himself at the analogy, picturing the scene and the confusion. Two teams hellbent on winning with unimaginable chaos.

“Are you going out with your friend tonight?” Signora Bianchi asks.

He shakes his head. “I’m going to catch up on some work and think about where to take him tomorrow.”

He’d pulled an exaggerated pout when Keiji had said he was leaving, but hadn’t pressed too hard for him to stay, saying he had to chase up a contact, but as Keiji had opened the door, Konoha had pulled him back inside.

“I wondered if, only if you want to, you wanted to move in while I’m here. It would be quieter for you.”

“And that’s the only reason? How altruistic, Konoha-san,” he’d whispered back and nipped Konoha’s ear.

He’d wound his arms around him squeezing his bum with both hands. “Ah, there are compensations. What do you think?”

Above the clamour of continuing questions, Keiji directs his words to Signora Bianchi. “I’m going to stay with him while he’s here. I hope that doesn’t put you out.”

“It’s not a problem,” she assures him. “What did you see today?”

He closes off the picture of Konoha’s naked body from his mind. Dismisses the memory of tan lines on smooth warm skin. “The Baptistery,” he lies.

“And the Campanile?” Signor Bianchi asks. “He shouldn’t miss that!”

With over four-hundred steps, Keiji makes a mental note to _not_ take Konoha there, but he nods non-committally and lets them all bombard him with suggestions.

It’s later, in the sanctuary of his bedroom that he messages Konoha telling him he’ll come and stay.

_[And tomorrow I thought we could do the bridges. How does that sound?]_

**[Exhausting. It’ll work up my appetite.]**

He’s still typing. Keiji waits, pretty sure he knows what’s coming.

**[And not for food]**

In blistering heat, they take their perusal of the city’s bridges slowly. Konoha, with a battered straw hat perched on his head, sunglasses, bleached shorts and an overlarge blue shirt, looks the epitome of a surfer dude, and again Keiji feels unsettled beside him—too formal in what amounts to the same type of clothes, but too neat, too pressed, too … too … _bland_. When they pause in the middle of the second bridge to take in the view, he pulls at his shirt, untucking it slightly in the hope of looking less dressy.

“Do you know you have this singular capacity to make everyone around you look scruffy,” Konoha says. “Even at the end of matches when the rest of us were red-faced messes, you always managed to stay … uh …” He presses his fingers to his lips, “ _Soigné_.”

“I was just thinking how relaxed you looked,” Keiji mutters. “I feel as if I’m wearing a suit beside you.”

“You’re you,” Konoha replies and bumps his shoulder into him. “And it’s what’s underneath the clothes that matters.”

His lips twitch, and Keiji knows this isn’t a deep and meaningful, so he smirks back. Yet he feels better for the conversation, more comfortable and less as if he stands out.

“You came here with Bokuto, didn’t you?” Konoha asks when they set off again. Keiji stares at him. “He posted it all over social media and I _was_ still in touch at that time.”

“He visited with his team in my first year. He made me jog all of them. You say you never saw me sweaty. Honestly, I was desiccated after that and had to down electrolyte drinks for a week.”

“Did you visit much else?” he asks, sounding casual.

Bokuto had been excited to see Keiji and to try new foods, but his focus had been on the games he would play, the teams he would see and the majority of their time together had been spent inside sports stadia and gyms.

“We didn’t climb towers or discuss art,” Keiji replies. “And he didn’t make me dance in the middle of the street.”

He flicks a grin at him. “You enjoyed it.”

_The aftermath_ , he wants to say, but actually thinking back, he enjoyed it all: the wine curling inside him, Konoha’s arms on his shoulders as he coaxed him to dance, the way he slunk towards him, his eyelids heavy as he flashed him looks.

“Yes. I did.” There’s a pause, a not entirely comfortable pause. “I saw him play, and we took in a local league game. It’s out of season now, but I could find a friendly if you’d like to go to a match.”

Shaking his head, Konoha takes a slow slug of water. “Show me more of the city.”

After the bridges, and browsing the shops on the Ponte Vecchio, Keiji leads him to a park. They munch on shop-bought paninis, sip cold cans of coke and share a punnet of raspberries while watching a small group of boys play football. Konoha stretches out his legs on the grass, his gaze flickering as the football passes from boy to boy, and as Keiji watches him, he wonders—again—why he disappeared and why he’s now back in touch.

“Oh to be eight again and have that energy,” Konoha yawns widely. “I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.”

“It’s the heat,” Keiji replies. “Want to move into the shade?”

“Rather go back. We’re not far are we?”

Shaking his head, he gets up, then offers his hand to Konoha, pulling him to his feet. They overbalance a little, with Konoha falling into him and there’s a brief touch of lips to Keiji’s cheek before he rights himself. And then he yawns again and laughs apologetically.

”We used to play back to back games of volleyball and now, a few years later, I can’t manage a six bridges.”

“Adrenalin,” Keiji replies. “And would you have dared give in to tiredness with Bokuto-san around?”

“There were a lot of things I didn’t dare do with him around,” he mutters, but when Keiji probes for more he doesn’t elaborate.

They’re kissing back at the apartment, arms around each other when Konoha’s phone vibrates. He pulls it out of his pocket, apologising and saying he’ll ignore it, but as the name flashes on the screen, he disentangles himself.

“Sorry … I really need to talk to this guy. It’s about a job. I might be a while.”

Keiji settles himself on the sofa. He could get on with some work, but he’s feeling tired after the whirl of the past few days, so as Konoha wanders out to the kitchen to make his call, he stretches out and closes his eyes.

There’s something cold on his lips. He presses them together, wondering what the faint taste of lemon is, and breathes again. Snow, maybe, now falling on him as he moves across the court trying to work out who to set to. Bokuto’s sulking, Washio just dealt with a particularly aggressive serve, Sarukui is on his left, but so are the Nekoma blockers, led by Kuroo, and ….

_Pistachio?_

It’s cold and creamy, making his lips tingle. Why…

“Hey, Hey!”

Of course, a toss to the right. Konoha unmarked, leaps as if he has springs in his shoes, and…

In slow motion the ball arcs towards him, Konoha’s hanging in midair, and it’s as if he’s hovering, kept aloft by actual wings and not just the metaphorical ones all Fukurodani players wished for.

“But he’s a fox,” Keiji mutters. He smacks his lips in exasperation as another cold substance touches them.

Cherry? Really?

“Who’s a fox?”

“Huh?”

His eyes blink open, and he looks up to see a blur of sand coloured hair masked by a white bowl.

“Hello, sleepyhead.”

“What?” He raises his hand and wipes something away from his mouth. “What’s this?”

“Ice cream. That one’s cherry. While you were getting your beauty sleep, I took your host family’s advice and bought up some flavours.”

“How long was I asleep—” He breaks off when Konoha scoops more ice cream—this time chocolate—into his mouth. “Ahh, that’s good.”

“Not long,” Konoha replies.Helping himself to a tub, he peels off the lid and then stretches out next to Keiji. “This is vanilla. Now, some people think it’s the most boring of flavours.”

“Don’t let Signora Bianchi hear you say that.”

“She’s right. This one is creamy…” He licks the small wooden spatula, before scraping it across the surface of the ice cream, “smooth and …” Trailing off, he offers it to Keiji, then moves in. “Sharable,” he whispers.

Ice cream lips warm and melt under the kiss. They help themselves to more, Konoha dispensing with the spatula to ply it out of the pot with his fingers then smearing it not just on Keiji’s mouth, but also his neck, which he laps at like a cat, then licks his ear.

“You’re gross,” Keiji chides, pushing him away.

“And you’re delicious. Well, your lips and neck are.” He drags Keiji back and his hand creeps under his shirt, flattening against his abs. “But what about the rest of you?”

“What are you—AGHHH! THAT’S COLD!” Shrieking he tries to get away, but a laughing Konoha has flipped him over on the sofa and is now splodging ice cream dollops over his skin.

“KONOHA!”

“Hush, hush. I’ll soon warm you up,” he whispers, and lowers his head, letting his tongue glide across Keiji’s stomach as his hands deftly remove the rest of his clothes.

He’s helpless. His back arching and head pressed back into a cushion as Konoha not only dances his fingers down to Keiji’s thighs, but takes his cock in his mouth. He slips his lips down the shaft, grazing gently with his teeth, and Keiji can’t even think of resisting, can’t think about anything because his mind is a whirl of lust and heat and nothing else makes sense except the colours exploding in front of his eyes.

“I knew you’d be delicious,” Konoha mutters afterwards. He’s lying alongside him, eyes closed but with a smile lilting.

“That was insane.”

“Agreed. Must be the ice cream.” His breathing deepens and for a while, Keiji thinks he’s fallen asleep, until he asks, “Who was the fox?”

“Hmm?”

“You were dreaming and mentioned a fox.”

“Huh? Oh…” Keiji chuckles. “I was dreaming we were playing Nekoma. Bokuto was sulking, Washio pulled off a great receive, Sarukui was marked by three blockers, so I sent it right. To you. You were the fox.”

“Oh, right.” He frowns a little. “Do you often dream about volleyball?”

“Not sure. I don’t usually remember my dreams, but … well… you’re here… Do you?”

“Sometimes.” A shrug. “Do you still play?”

“Not this year. I did when I was at college, but the standard here is incredible so I was rarely a starter, and in England there wasn’t much of a team.” Pausing, he touches Konoha’s hand with his little finger. “You played for a while, didn’t you?”

“Tried to. Missed a lot of practise sessions because I was back in Tokyo a lot.”

His grandmother had been ill, Keiji remembered, so Konoha had travelled from Kyoto most weekends, which must have taken its toll. Something had had to give.

“Didn’t help that half the players we beat at Nationals seemed to be at the same college.”

“Determined to beat you?”

He twines his fingers into Keiji’s squeezing gently. “What was it you once said? We’re the protagonists of the world! So there’s always an antagonist waiting to bring us down. And going from that high was … well, there was only one way to go.”

Keiji kisses his fingers. “In some ways, I guess I was lucky being a second year. I had a year to adjust. You third years went from—”

“The top of the world to a crash landing.” He twists his face into a wry smile. “Only Bokuto had a parachute.”

“More like springs so he could keep bouncing.” He pauses and decides at that moment, now they’re cloaked in intimacy, to probe further. “Was that why you left Kyoto?”

Konoha huffs, seemingly not fussed by the question. “I guess it contributed. Maybe if I’d been a regular and needed, I would have felt … uh … I don’t know … settled… included, but it was only when I reached Greece for my secondment that I felt less restricted, not walled in.” He sighs and closes his eyes again. “This is getting too deep. Let’s just say I found my calling on a beach.” Then he opens one eye. “I didn’t drop out, by the way. I deferred.”

He doesn’t ask if he has plans to go back. This Konoha doesn’t do plans, but if he’s deferred then that is a kind of plan, and maybe ...

He pulls on the reins of his thoughts before they gallop into unknown territory and tells his brain to focus on the now and not some distant future. One day, one game, one point at a time—the same way as ever.

Later, when they’re out in the city having eaten and drunk more wine, Konoha dances even as they walk to the Domo. There’s music in the air and on his lips, a light in his eyes as he hastens his way there, and Keiji’s reminded once more of that run on his seventeenth birthday and feeling he shouldn’t keep up. But Konoha grabs his hand, urging him onwards and they both laugh to the night sky as they speed forwards together.

It’s not quite four when he wakes. Konoha is beside him, his breath snuffling out into a pillow, his hair covering his face. He has this urge to wake him, to press his lips against his cheek and to inhale his scent, but instead he eases out of bed and pads his way to the bathroom. It’s dark, the skies are clear and through the wonky venetian blind slats, the stars twinkle. He peers at them for a while, thinking about sailors and guiding lights and then he creeps out of the bathroom and to the kitchen to set up his laptop.

“Coffee?”

Konoha’s standing in the doorway, a smile playing on his lips. “I thought you’d done a bunk.”

“Ah, sorry.” He stretches. “I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“You should have woken me. We could have not slept together.”

“You looked too peaceful. And I thought I’d get on with something.”

“More work?”

He clicks the tab shut. “What’s the time?”

“Seven-thirty. So, coffee or tea?” As he steps into the kitchen, Konoha chuckles. “Didn’t have you down as the sentimental type, Akaashi.”

“Hmm?” He follows his gaze, seeing it has rested on his phone.

“Thought you might have changed it by now,” Konoha says, and picking up the phone he peruses it with pursed lips. “Was I cooler with short hair?”

“I like it now,” Keiji replies.

He hands the phone back. “So are you sentimental, or can you just not be bothered to change it?”

“I used to say I’d keep it there until we won again …” He lowers his eyes, studying the picture and a wave of nostalgia washes over him.

“And nothing’s quite lived up to that thrill?” Konoha snorts. “C’mon, it’s not like you’re an old man. You do have a few more decades left _._ ” His eyes narrow. “Oh, hold on … Third option … have you changed it _back_ to this moment?”

“Ha, nope. Not felt the need. It’s a lock screen that makes me smile when I see it, so why change? What’s yours?”

Yawning, Konoha reaches for the kettle. “Tea or coffee?”

“Are you avoiding the question?”

“Not particularly. It’s a turtle.”

“From the beach where you had your revelation?”

“This is too deep for this time of the day,” Konoha mutters. “I’m going to make drinks then go back to bed. You joining me?”

It seems to be a pattern, a firmly trodden route where as soon as Keiji gets too close, Konoha backs off. Not physically, but there’s a distance in his eyes as he skates away before the ice gets too thin and cracks. But does it matter. They only have five… no three days together … and what good will it do either of them to make such a strong connection and then have to tear it apart.

He resolves to hint no more, to not niggle at Konoha’s psyche to try and find reasons where there might not be reasons, but merely pathways and consequential actions. Then, almost as he’s decided, Konoha reaches across and touches his arm.

“I do miss those days sometimes, you know. Before I got in touch with you, I was going through photos on my phone and I found that same shot you have, and … ah … happy times. Remember Onaga crying? Jeez, how many tissues did he get through? I thought Saru would fly away he was so high. And you … I’m not sure I’d ever seen you so animated, so … happy. And yet, Koutarou? Do you remember he was —”

“Calm.”

“Yeah. He carried that utter belief all the way to the final, got better and better every game he played, while the rest of us groped our way through.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Keiji chides, and slides his hand to Konoha’s waist. “Steadfast as always. It was just that this time we didn’t need the rocks and palisades because Bokuto-san soared.” He kisses his shoulder. “Konoha, you were so important to that team. I don’t think you realised just how much we relied on you.”

“Ah, stop that.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re making me blush.” He stops, bites his lip and then drops a kiss on Keiji’s temple. “Call me Akinori, will you? Konoha makes me think of the past and school and senpais.”

He tries the name, then realises he’s tried it several times in his head occasionally whispering in the dark, finds it fits his tongue and ‘Konoha’ is no longer there, replaced by ‘Akinori’.

“And ... _Keiji?_ ”

He likes the way that sounds, murmured into his neck and a new thrill washes over him.

They fill the next two days with visits to the Tuscan hills, a tour of a vineyard and an impromptu truffle hunt. Cycling through winding paths, they stop at an out of the way cafe to enjoy farmhouse bread and local cheese. They sample wines. Grappa burns their taste buds and sends Keiji’s head spinning. The sun beats on them relentlessly but Konoha with his battered straw hat seems to relish the heat and the wide blue skies. To Keiji’s eyes, he’s happier than he’s ever seen him—free of responsibility, of ties, or even the pursuit of excellence which so dominated their school lives.

Evenings they spend in the heart of the city, eating, drinking, dancing and watching as life goes on around them.

And at night they wrap themselves around each other as if this is the last time.

But most of all they laugh.

Their last night in Florence, they eat spaghetti with clams, soak bread in lemon scented olive oil and share tiramisu feeding each other with long spoons. It’s leisurely and light, so when the waitress brings more wine, Konoha hands her their phones and asks if she’ll take pictures.

“Eight hours time difference,” Konoha says as he pours over the photographs. He points to one, where they’ve raised their glasses, heads turned to each other, and the descending sun is shimmering around them. “Why don’t you post that one? Something the others can look at over their breakfasts.”

“You don’t mind them knowing?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t defer my life forever. Maybe it’s time the prodigal returned.”

They’re heading to the station on the fifth day, both carrying bags over their shoulders.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Konoha says again, but he gives a lilting smile which belies the words.

“I’ve not seen Ancona.”

“And you’ve got to make sure I actually leave, right?”

“That too,” he whistles. “I shall wave you off from the shoreline and wish you good speed to … Where is it you’re going first?”

“Corfu, then we’ll island hop.”

“Sounds relaxing.”

“Thought you suffered from seasickness.”

“You’ll love it though, won’t you?”

“As crew I’m not supposed to enjoy myself, but, yeah, I will.” He slows his pace, delving into his back pocket for his credit card before producing it at the ticket machine. “It’s a tourist cruise, so I’ll be busy, but when they’ve gone ashore, it’ll just be us floating on the waves.”

It’s a short wait for the train, then a ride to Bologna before they change. Konoha dozes for the first part of their journey, but Keiji stays awake staring out of the window before he gets out a notebook and pen. He glances at Konoha from time to time, taking a break from words to capture in his mind the sight of the man he’s spent the last week with. And although there’s sadness because the idyll is ending, there’s a sense of peace and happiness enveloping him because of what has happened in the now and what could be.

“You’re busy again,” Konoha says, yawning.

“Thought you were asleep.”

“Catnap,” he dismisses. “Is that work?”

“Not exactly.”

Konoha raises an eyebrow but he doesn’t press, and it’s that hesitation which emboldens Keiji to confide.

“Your first day here, you wanted to know what I’d written in my ‘what I want to be when I’m twenty-five?’ essay.”

“Oh … and?”

“Playing volleyball was there, but I put writer, too. Both seemed … um … fanciful … and writer was always going to be something for the future and not as immediate as practising everyday to win Nationals, but…” He hums to himself, alters a word in his journal and closes it.

“So you’re writing now. That’s cool!” Konoha’s smile is wide. “Brilliant. What’s it about? Or do you not want to say?”

“A traveller,” he says, and looks away. “One who gets lost on their way home. It’s a modern version of Odysseus, I guess. At least, that’s the plan. It might well come to nothing and all I have are scribbles in a notebook.”

A hand covers his. “It’s a beginning though. It’s the start of something and that’s good. Like … like cutting into those figs and not knowing if they’ll be juicy or dry.”

“Or blind tasting ice cream.”

“And look where that led!” He barks out a laugh and the other passengers crane their necks to look, so he lowers his voice. “Could be mindblowing, Keiji.”

It’s on their second train, on the last leg, when Keiji checks his phone. He flicks to Instagram and a gasp of delight projects unchecked from his lips.

“They’ve seen,” he says, still chucking and hands his phone over.

>>> **sarukui.smile:** Catching up with the kouhai, eh? 

>>> **KonohaFox: @sarukui.smile:** Took your advice.

>>> **sarukui.smile:** at last! ;p

“What does he mean by that wink?”

“Uhm, Yamato kinda figured out I had a bit of a crush on you at school. I mean who could blame me, right?”

“You did? I never knew!”

“You were too moon eyed over Bokuto to have noticed. And there was no way I’d have made a move and disturbed his equilibrium.”

“I never—“

“Yeah, I know, but there was, I reckon this small window to have made a move and I missed it. I looked up one summer to find you deep in conversation with your Crow.”

“Hey, you started seeing Suzumeda before _that_ Training Camp.”

“True.” He boops Keiji in the nose. “And she was hella cute, too.”

>>> **SnowOwl:** Hey stranger, what brought you back from the dead?

**> >>KonohaFox: @SnowOwl **Bit of culture, good food and excellent company, Yukie-chan. Akaashi-kun’s been the perfect host.

>>> **AkaashiK:** He’s been a truly awful guest though.

“Hey!”

>>> **SuzeKao:** What’s with the hair?!

>>> **KonohaFox: @SuzeKao** Cool right? Soon be longer than yours.

>>> **SuzeKao: @KonohaFox** Must get mine cut immediately :P Does this mean you’re coming home soon?

>>> **KonohaFox:** Ahh, you never know.

Keiji grins as he watches the messages flash under the post. Washio pops up to say a gruff ‘Hi’, An eager Onaga replies and likes every one of his statuses. Koni jumps in, aghast he’s missed the gossip. There are messages from Kuroo and even Kenma.

But there’s one person missing. One who wouldn’t have checked his phone before he headed out for an early run, scoffed down breakfast then scooted off to training.

>>> **thewilloftheace:** HEY HEY HEY!!! KONOHA UR BAAAACK!!!!>>>

“Oh, there he is!” Konoha laughs as he taps in a reply.

>>> **KonohaFox:** HOLY CRAP, KOUTAROU, I CAN HEAR YOU ALL THE WAY FROM JAPAN!

They’re happy, Keiji muses. And Konoha is too. He’s less fidgety and there’s a softer more indulgent tone in his voice. His hand clasps Keiji’s under the table, his thumb giving a brief caress, before he taps out a few more replies.

We were such a good team. We only lasted a year, but we only needed a year to hit that summit. It’s no wonder we dissipated. And why were any of us surprised when the he sailed away to find somewhere else to moor?

“Are you going to come back?” he asks.

Konoha puts down his phone, stares right into Keiji’s eyes, and lets out the smallest of sighs. “I can’t defer my place forever. Kyoto’s giving me until the end of this year to decide, and I do want to finish the degree, but there are other options.” He licks his lips. “Other countries, perhaps. What I can promise you is that I’ll be less of a stranger.” Disregarding the other passengers, he presses his lips gently to Keiji’s cheek and squeezes his hand again. “You’ve helped me get my head round all of this. You’re so clear-sighted but you don’t push, and I needed that.”

“You’re happy, though.”

“Mmm, but maybe a little blinded by the sun and paradise. Odysseus had to leave Calypso’s island eventually.”

Then he whistles in a breath and returns to his phone to berate Komi for missing out. It’s all banter and laughs. Light and airy as if this were the week after Nationals and not five years later.

And perhaps that’s the way it should be.

He makes a show of writing more notes, but in reality it’s a series of doodles, a woman with long black hair swirling in the sea as she tries to entice her sailor back.

Fruitless because he’s bound to another.

At Ancona harbour after stowing his bag, Konoha hops back to dry land and sits with Keiji on the jetty. There’s a breeze coming off the sea, one that ruffles his hair. So he ties it back again, muttering that he really should get it cut.

“I like it,” Keiji says once more, but resists the urge to run his fingers through the sunshine streaked tresses again.

“You know, if you’re writing about Odysseus, you really should conquer your fear of boats and research sailing.”

“It’s modern day,” Keiji counters. “He could fly, or take the train, drive and …” He sighs. “Maybe I should. The waves look beautiful and intimidating.”

“They are,” Konoha breathes. “Maybe it’s the fear I like. Hey, your Odysseus, does he have a Penelope waiting for him?”

“Do you think Odysseus would want that?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a big responsibility, and the guilt attached if you fail…”

“I thought you said the gods set him up?” he teases.

“He could still have said no,” Konoha murmurs. “Penelope did.”

“Perhaps Penelope relished her freedom. It was less about waiting for her ‘lord’ and more living her own life.”

“Weaving? Sounds kinda dull. She could have sailed and had her own adventures.”

“Maybe she was seasick too.” On the boat, someone moves. “I think your captain wants you on board.”

Standing up, Konoha hauls Keiji to his feet. He holds him briefly, goes to let him go, then groans and pulls him back to an embrace. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for everything, Keiji. This has been … unreal.”

“I know. And look, if you’re back this way before I leave, then …”

“Maybe I’ll take you sailing.”

“Nooo! My stomach will hate you.”

“Nah, it’ll be fine. I’ll hold your hand, the whole way.” He drops a kiss on his mouth, ignoring the Captain’s yells. “Goodbye, Keiji.”

He inhales the salty scent of his skin, and runs one finger down his cheek. “Goodbye, Akinori.”

Keiji watches the sea after they’ve gone. He shields his eyes from the sun wondering if he’s imagining that the blur on the horizon is Konoha looking back to shore.

And he fancies he can still feel the pressure of his hand in his, with the vague promise of a future journey together. But as the waves crash into the jetty, his mind wanders off onto a different tangent, about Calypso facing the inevitable, Penelope waiting and Odysseus torn between adventure and home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 2018, I told people one of my regrets was not writing the 'Konoha sexy dancer' fic I was going to write for Sportsfest but didn't get to. So, only a year late :D 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed that.
> 
> I kinda want to write Akaashi's book now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone on twitter and the writey group for cheering me on. This has been an odd non-writing sort of year, but I'm still plodding away so thank you for reading. Support is much appreciated.


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